Chapter 4

chapter

four

ADDIE

"Reporting for duty." Austin stands on the inside of the old bread factory and stuffs one hand into his pocket. In the other, he holds up a bag of Skittles. "And here's this."

"You magnificent flannel-loving cactus," I say, but my voice isn't as enthusiastic as I'd like it to be.

The guy might be prickly and frustratingly curt, but he's definitely a kind and generous friend. It's why he answered my SOS and rushed over here.

He deserves a proper thanks, but my boiling blood is too close to the surface.

"You still promise to let the band practice at your house while Hunter's garage is getting painted, right?" Austin arches a brow.

Oh, right .

Our conversation all comes rushing back to me.

That's how I'd planned to thank him for giving up his evening to help me. His band plays at the Tap every Sunday night, and they practice on Wednesdays, which works well for me because that's when I volunteer at the dance studio.

"Sure. Whatever you need," I say, completely distracted, but I'd bet not even broody Austin can blame me.

The homecoming parade is tomorrow, and the freshmen have yet to finish their float. While the other classes successfully stuck to their schedules I arranged, the freshmen took my hard work and chucked it out the window like littering jerks with their empty cans or fast-food wrappers.

We have zero room to mess around tonight, which is why I brought in reinforcements. Austin's already here, and Maren, Caroline, and Owen should arrive soon too.

Together, we can finish this in our allotted time slot.

I retrieve a plastic tablecloth from my tote bag of wondrous things and drape it over the rusty table before I let him throw my precious Skittles onto it.

Maren pops in, two lavender boxes in her hands, and my stomach growls at the sight. It's not subtle, either. It sounds more like a croaking bullfrog in summer.

"Easy," Maren teases. "I brought cookies for everyone. You have to share."

"We'll see," I joke back, even though there's a touch of truth to it. I'm starving.

I open each box, and with a deep inhale of the homemade treats, my stomach growls louder.

"How many kids are coming tonight?" Austin points to the cookies. "There are enough cookies here for a small school of juvenile bass."

Maren and I both stare at him.

"The younger ones tend to swim with each other in groups, unlike the more solitary adults," he clarifies with a clipped tone.

"I have no idea how I survived my whole life without knowing that," I deadpan.

"You're welcome," he throws back with a grunt.

Maren hooks a thumb over her shoulder and inches toward the door. "On that fascinating note, I need to run."

"You're not staying?" I frown.

"I have so much work to do if I have any hope of making it to homecoming stuff tomorrow." She holds her hands up in a prayer-like fashion. "I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven. Now, go, you beautiful human with fantastically talented baking hands." I wave her off to go be the extraordinary girl boss she is.

"Let me know what you think about the spicy pear cookies. It's a new recipe."

"Since she's leaving, can I go too?" Austin nods in the direction where Maren disappears.

"You don't have to work."

"You don't know that."

I tilt my head in doubt, then hand him a cookie. "Eat this. The sugar should balance your bitterness."

I bite into my own sugary heaven and groan when it melts in my mouth. It's almost enough to fix my mood. The fall spices complement the sweetness of the raisins, and the flavors coat my tongue in a blanket of seasonal glory. If I didn't care so much about the students, I'd hide one whole box away to take home for myself.

They'd deserve to miss out on the treats after the stress they've put me through this week, but alas, I'm not evil. I close the boxes and pat the cookies like they're good little pets.

Then I throw my tote onto the table and rifle through it, skipping past an extra bra I tossed in here in light of last week's wardrobe malfunction.

Among the first aid and sewing kits, I locate the hand sanitizer, rub a small blob into my palm and around my fingers, then sip from my water bottle. I face Austin again, who frowns at my appearance.

"What's with the getup?" He waves a finger over me.

In truth, it looks like Sapphire Creek High School threw up on me.

The array of blacks and golds are admittedly disorienting. The tie-dyed headband around my head matches my T-shirt. Long pigtails emerge over each shoulder, cascading over the black vest I lined with gold sequins.

Beyond that, my shimmery leggings are tucked into knee-high socks with glitter covering them, and on my feet, I wear the canvas shoes I decorated with Maren last night. This morning, I painted two black lines under my eyes too, but I washed them off before leaving my house, deciding such additions sent the whole outfit from enthusiastic to psychotic.

"Spirit week." I shrug, as I figure it's obvious.

But knowing Austin Kyle and his clueless ways, he probably thought this was some change in trending fashion. When we were in high school, he was not the type to be aware of spirit week, let alone dress up for it.

I study the dim space as a dust bunny skips across the concrete floor like a tumbleweed, and the faint smell of something unknown drifts in and out of my senses. We have got to find more suitable—and odorless—places to build these floats in the future. It can't be that hard to locate some proper, unoccupied buildings, right?

Since it's just Austin and me so far, I use the opportunity to make a note for future me to search for open floorplans with less rancid smells. "Ugh!" I hit the end of the pen on the table, but when I try to use it again to write, it still does nothing.

I toss it over my shoulder and dig into my bag for another, because even my backups have backups.

"Are you… well? You're a bit… twitchy." The brute doesn't scare easily, but Austin is suddenly pale as he appraises me like I've grown three zombie heads.

"Just peachy," I grind out, opting to bury the curse words inside my body as I shove my notebook back into my tote. "Why wouldn't I be just peachy ? Why would the fact that the freshmen aren't anywhere close to finishing their float bother me? I'm cool. I'm confident. I'm perfectly well, my dear, sweet Austin." The mix of sarcasm and disappointment in my voice echoes across the dusty old factory, and my heart races.

Why don't they care as much as I do? Do they not realize this is part of their class legacy? This is a piece of our town's history in the making, and the only thing they seem to award their attention to is the fact that Junior is grounded for taking his dad's truck without permission, Maple got her braces off, and her best friend Frances was voted the freshmen homecoming maid.

It's all exciting, but they have no idea how monumental things like the float are for the community. These are the things and experiences they'll fondly remember down the road. These moments are the stitches in the quilt that makes up high school, but they're treating this quilt like just another grimy cloth abandoned in an attic somewhere.

"I don't suppose now is a good time to let you know Judd will be out of town Saturday and Sunday to visit his brother."

I whirl around, my eyelid convulsing like a volcano just erupted in my head. Austin isn't kidding. I should've known he wouldn't joke about it—the guy wouldn't know how to kid if he were tossed into a pen full of comedians.

I just wish he were the playful type, because if Judd is out of town this weekend, then he can't fix my dryer. Fantastic .

Masking my frustration, I slide the drill off the table and hand it to Austin. "The others should be here soon. Let's get to work, shall we?"

The whirring of the drill quickly descends upon us and mildly distracts me from my busy mind. It's as overcrowded in there as peaches in a mason jar. But the unpleasant screeching from Austin screwing boards along the outside of the trailer is no match for my overpowering thoughts.

Each one slams into me as if I'm physically pushed.

Once he pauses the drilling, I continue working as I absentmindedly say, "The parade is tomorrow. I've already arranged for designated drivers to haul the floats to the high school in the morning, one being the big gorilla from the gaming club in Judd's garage. The rest are scattered around town, and I'm putting more trust in these happy helpers than I do my dentist."

No sound comes from Austin. I don't even glance up to see if he's listening.

"I've worked and re-worked the order of participants as people have dropped out, and others have been added. Is it finalized? Or will there be more changes to deal with at the last minute? There are always stressful changes in the final hour, especially with something of this caliber," I ramble.

Austin powers up the drill again. Once he ceases, his sigh echoes across the space, and I sigh too.

"Most of the town will be there," I say. "All those eyes will be on the school—and me. It has to go well."

The pressure is so on, but I'm no stranger to it. Pressure and me? We're best freaking pals.

"Are you talking to me?" Austin asks, and I finally peer over at him from the opposite side of the trailer.

This makes me laugh for the first time today.

The crunching sounds of cars pulling up the gravel path drift over us, followed by low chatter from the approaching students.

Before they barrel inside, Austin strides over to me, his voice low when he asks, "You'd tell me if you weren't all right, wouldn't you? Or is this one of those things where I need to read between the lines or ask you to blink twice if you're in some sort of trouble?"

"I'll be fine," I whisper, but he doesn't immediately break eye contact.

Only when the kids scramble inside does he step away, a broody shadow firmly in place over his expression.

He's worried about me, and while it's much appreciated, it's not necessary. This is not my first rodeo. I will make it to the other side of homecoming week with a triumphant victory, just as I have in years past.

This might be the first time so much responsibility has fallen on me, but it's what I do. It's all part of my ten-year plan—more responsibility means more trust, which means more clout, which gives me a better shot at a promotion when one becomes available.

I'm going to be principal someday.

My body runs on autopilot as I idly stuff tissue paper into the chicken wire in order to give the freshmen a fighting chance to get this done, when Owen finally arrives.

He strolls in here fifteen minutes late smelling like the inside of an old gym bag that got wet, dried, then got wet again.

My senses are attacked by a whiff of him before I see him, and I make a mental note to add "all chaperones must shower before school functions" to my list for future me.

Owen smacks Austin's shoulder and adjusts the bill of his baseball cap over his forehead, the unruly strands of his dirty-blond hair curling over the tops of his ears.

His black T-shirt clings to what some women around town call his lickable biceps. The sweatpants he wears rise over his hips and rest along his tapered waist. He's casual, yet most women in Sapphire Creek—including a few around the teacher's lounge—would say he's still a mouthwatering slab of hunk they'd love a bite of.

I don't share in their ridiculous observations. Owen Conrad is just a man. Of course, if his personality were appealing in the slightest, I might view him as a decent-looking man. He's definitely not an ogre, even if he does currently smell like one, but that's as nice as I'm going to be on the subject.

"So great of you to join us," I chirp, infusing my voice with honey-sweet sarcasm. "You're late, but at least you made it before we all left this time."

"At least you remembered to, you know…" He twists his thin lips as he points across his chest and nods toward what better not be my breasts.

Except he's totally referring to my breasts.

What was I thinking by telling him about my lack of bra last week? Clearly, I wasn't thinking at all when I overshared, and I cannot believe he's bringing it up now in front of the students and my friend.

On the other hand, I can believe it. The guy's maturity level is that of a gnat.

Caroline pops in and stands on the other side of Austin, whose eyes crinkle in the corners as he stifles a grin with his palm.

When I glance back at Owen, he's still looking at my chest, his lips now twitching like he's fighting a laugh.

"What?" I clip.

Owen points at me again. "You got a little something on your ti—I mean, your chest." He clears his throat and glances over my shoulder at some of the freshmen who poke at each other, completely oblivious to us.

I peer down and find three pieces of tissue paper clinging to the sequins on my vest.

"I can help you with those." The goon stalks toward me with outstretched hands, a smirk the size of his ego stretching across his clean square jaw.

I swat Owen away and hiss, "You are so unprofessional."

His gaze travels over my body and up to my mouth as amusement blinks in and out of his expression, alternating between it and something I can't decipher.

I can usually read him easily—he's not exactly a complex specimen—but this look is new.

Rustling distracts me from getting to the bottom of this mysterious element clouding Owen's light eyes, and I drag my attention to the root of the interruption.

"Hey! Those are not for you." I march toward the students rifling through my bag of Skittles, and I wave my hands over them like I would shoo away a swarm of flies. "You can have the cookies, though."

"This is a huge bag of Skittles. Literally thousands, so plenty for us all." Maple crosses her arms over her chest in an equally bold and very na?ve move. Chucking the braces has done something extra special to her confidence, aka teenage snark.

" Literally refers to an actual fact, so it does not apply here." I blink over her and Frances, who sidles up next to Maple like we're in a standoff on the set of Grease .

God, they remind me so much of the evil twins I graduated with—Emily and Yvonne. They never ignored an opportunity to sling spiteful comments my way, and I was certainly an easy target. The backbone I now carry was only in the incubation stages back then.

But unlike the ornery PE teacher behind me, I am a professional. No haughty teenager, whether or not she reminds me of someone I once despised, is going to make me stoop down to her level.

"Let me give you a more accurate example of the word's correct usage." I exaggerate my contemplation with a double tap to my chin. "You literally have two hours to finish this float. If you don't, you literally won't be allowed to attend the dance on Saturday night. So, you should get to work literally right now."

Several grumbles of outrage ensue as an overpowering presence casts a shadow over me.

The smell he dragged in with him is less potent now, and when his forearm brushes against mine, my skin pricks.

Is Owen offering his support, like a united front type of situation? Or is the jerk after my Skittles for himself? I can't be sure.

Maple scoffs. "The only reason I'm even here is because my dad made me. What about the rest of our class? They didn't show up. Why don't they have to be punished?"

"Plenty of your classmates have helped as much as they could. Let's be considerate of their obligations outside of school, shall we?" I say, carefully riding the delicate line of oversharing and being direct.

Instinctively, I flick my gaze over to Austin, who gives a simple but meaningful nod.

He never came to float when we were in high school. He had too many responsibilities at home, plus his part-time job at the auto shop. I had my own worries too—it's how our friendship was first forged during our senior year.

"Miss Lockhart, this isn't fair!" Maple whines, stepping forward like she's the leader of the entire unruly pack as she garners their support.

This has gone far enough.

I open my mouth to put an end to this, but to my surprise, Owen beats me to it.

"What isn't fair is that the other classes have managed to show up on time for their float shifts and complete the tasks without resistance or disrespect." He naturally towers over the students, not only because he's tall, but also because the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds are still growing into their sneakers.

"We're not float scientists. How are we supposed to finish it in two hours?" Frances chimes in as Maple's backup.

Owen holds his large hand up, revealing strong fingers and a thick wrist. "I'm so glad you asked, and we'll get to that. First, how about we apologize for talking back to Miss Lockhart? Then we can get down to business."

"Sorry," the pair mumbles, averting both their gazes.

They clearly don't mean it, but it's enough to unravel the knots of frustration in my shoulders—for now.

I clap my hands to get the rest of the students' attention. "Follow me." I spend the next few minutes assigning various jobs, plus handing out supplies to paint the boards and reminding them what it's supposed to look like. I save what I'm sure is considered the worst for last. "Maple, I have something special for you." I thrust a broom into her hands.

"Cleanup?" One corner of her lips raises in protest.

"A very important job," Owen says. "Thanks so much for being amenable."

Wide-eyed, I slowly face him. I have so many questions, starting with how the hell he knows how to properly use the word amenable . I figured his IQ didn't reach high enough to house a word like that.

Once they're all occupied, he and I shift to the side of the room across from Caroline and Austin, who appear rather cozy tonight. Was Maren right? Have they struck up an unlikely friendship… or more? All those girls' nights I'd planned never happened this week, and I've been so out of the loop.

"I, um…" I lick my lips, the impending positive words of appreciation aimed at Owen already sour before they leap out of my mouth. "Thanks for sticking up for me. They can be extra savage sometimes," I manage.

As he turns his eyes to me, my breath hitches. I've never been this close to Owen, and for the first time, I notice the hazel streaks in his irises. They burst like fireworks among the green chaos.

And my heart does something terrifying… it freaking flutters.